Stabs of Remorse
by stick-at-nought shady
Summary: He was experiencing cruel, terrible stabs of remorse, just as bad as if he had taken a knife and slit Katniss's throat.


**For the Caesar's Palace monthly oneshot challenge, November. The prompt is below. **

* * *

_"You see her when you close your eyes; Maybe one day you'll understand why; Everything you touch surely dies..."_

* * *

At age four, Peeta Mellark wanted nothing more but a dog.

He wasn't poor, he wasn't a nuisance even considering his age, and he was a little boy. He wanted a big, playful dog he could run around with, that he could sleep by. He fell asleep dreaming of getting a golden retriever for his birthday. In his dream, the dog slept on his little feet, warming them up. But he woke up in the morning with cold feet and a heavy heart.

But past his bedroom window, he heard a barking sound. His ears perked up, and he sprung out of bed. His feet slapped against the polished wood floor as he ran toward the window. He thrust it open, and, not paying attention to the blast of cold air that hit him, looked around for the source of the sound. He didn't see any dog. His face broke into a frown and he walked downstairs, pouting.

He was astonished to see that there was a dog on the porch. It was skinny, and Peeta could see its every rib. It didn't appear to have any ticks, fleas, or lice, but it was undoubtedly a stray. Peeta's eyes lit up and he ran toward the refrigerator in his kitchen. Standing on tiptoes, he opened the door. Cold air wrapped around him like a blanket. He couldn't reach what he was looking for, so he grabbed one of the wooden kitchen chairs and stood on it. He grabbed a package of turkey and ran outside with it.

The dog was a mixed breed, maybe a chocolate lab mixed with a German shepherd. It had brown fur with splotches of gray and white. Mud caked its worn-out feet. Peeta approached it cautiously. _Maybe the dog will bite!_ he thought fearfully, unwrapping the slab of turkey. The dog's sharp ears perked up at the sound, and Peeta set down the meat on the porch. The dog dug into the food, and when it was all gone, it looked up hopefully with deep brown eyes.

"I can't give you any more, doggie," Peeta said sadly. "Mommy will know the food's gone." Hesitantly, he reached out and petted the dog's head. It tried to lick his hand, and the little boy giggled. "I better go inside, doggie. It's cold out here." With that, he walked back inside to his warm house.

The dog kept coming back to the porch. Peeta didn't know why. It had eaten, why did it keep returning? He couldn't feed it any more, he had already gotten lectured by his mother for 'wasting food on a useless feral'.

One winter day, Peeta went outside, looking for the dog. It hadn't shown up, which was very unusual for it. Peeta walked around his house, bundled up in his winter clothes, shouting "Doggie! Where are you?"

There was a child's scream from the Mellark's backyard. Mrs. Mellark ran outside in her nightgown, fearing her son was hurt.

Peeta stood, trembling, by the body of a dog, starved to death because it was relying too much on Peeta's food.

* * *

"Daddy?" asked the baker's son. "That girl looks really skinny." He pointed with one chubby arm at an olive-skinned Seam girl standing across the schoolyard. His father shushed him quietly by pulling his hand down with rough, calloused fingers.

"It's very rude to point like that, Peeta," the baker said, reprimanding his son. "The girl doesn't come from the nice part of town we live in. She can't help not having enough to eat."

Peeta's light blue eyes widened and he let out a breath. The puff of air that followed resembled smoke in the chilly late-fall air. Peeta's huge, childish eyes focused on the Seam girl nervously, as if she was going to suddenly drop dead of malnutrition. "Well, why can't she get food from our store?" he asked.

His father swooped him up off the ground and onto his shoulders. "Don't we wish," he said bitterly. "The world doesn't work that way, Peet. You'll learn that soon enough."

* * *

Peeta's finger throbbed as he opened the oven. He had broken it only a day ago, wrestling his oldest brother, Austin, and it still hurt like all hell. He had splinted it, trying to make it less painful. Unfortunately, he had no medical experience, and he just ended up making it hurt even worse.

He reached into the blazing oven and started to pull the bread out of it. When he shifted it in his oven-mitted hand, though, it hit his injured finger. With a yelp of pain, he dropped the loaf into the bottom of the oven. It burst into flames, and, without thinking, the baker's son reached right into the flames and pulled out the bread. His oven mitt caught on fire too, and he pulled it off with his other hand and threw it in the sink. He slammed the oven shut and splashed water on the burning oven mitt.

"Peeta Johnathon Mellark!" bellowed a voice from the threshold to the baking room. Peeta's mother stormed into the room. She put her gnarled hands on her hips and glared at her son. Despite her being a head shorter than him, she still intimidated him. Peeta shrank back.

"I'm sorry, Mom, I didn't mean to drop the bread! I bent back my finger and-" Peeta started. Mrs. Mellark's eyes narrowed in fury.

"I don't care if you tore your finger off! You just lost us a good amount of money!" she screamed in Peeta's face. Peeta flinched and grabbed the bread, holding it like a shield, almost. A shield probably would've came in handy for him, because Mrs. Mellark's closed fist smashed into his cheek.

"Mom! Stop!" Peeta said frantically, trying to defend himself as he was pummeled by a whirl of fists.

"Go feed the damn bread to the pigs! You and them have something in common!" she snarled. She slapped him again, for good measure, and threw another burnt loaf at him. "This one, too! If I recall, you burnt it this morning!" Peeta stood there, holding the loaves with white knuckles. He looked back at his mother and bit his lip. He hated when she beat him. "Get on!"

Sullenly, Peeta walked out onto his porch with the loaves. He tucked them under his arm. Great. It was raining. He scowled and tore off the end of a loaf. He aimed at the pig's pen and threw it to the animals. They surrounded it, squealing, trying to each get a bite.

Just as Peeta was about to throw another chunk, he saw a person standing by his trash cans. He looked over at them, squinting through the downpour of cold rain. He recognized the person: it was a Seam girl, from his class. Katniss Everdeen, his childhood crush. He nearly blushed, thinking of when he used to watch her. That sure was embarrassing.

The girl was very skinny, and even through her blouse, Peeta could see her every rib. His brow creased. Did Seam people always live like that? It must be terrible. Katniss stared at him with large, haunting eyes. At first, Peeta was unnerved by her gaze, but then he realized: Katniss was staring at the raisin bread he was holding with a hungry light in her eyes.

Peeta motioned with his arm that was holding the bread like he might hand the bread to the girl. She stood up a little bit straighter, hopefully. Peeta couldn't blame her. Even burnt, his bread was excellent. And the girl was starving. _I had better throw her some bread,_ Peeta told himself. He tore off a hunk of bread and was getting ready to throw it, when his mother's breath warmed his neck.

"You better not be doing what I think you're doing," she hissed. "Are you?" Peeta stared at the warm piece of bread in his hand. It was slowly getting soaked with water, but he still could give it to the girl... But his mother was standing right there, and he bet she wouldn't hesitate in beating him again if he threw the bread. The girl was starving, though! How cruel would it be not to give her the food that might determine between her life and death?

"No," Peeta breathed. "No way." With a heavy heart, he chucked the bread in the direction of the pig pen.

When he went to sleep that night, he dreamed of the Seam girl. In the dream, she glared at him resentfully, for denying her what she needed. He'd never forget that look.

* * *

"Peeta Mellark, you get your ass outside!" called Mr. Mellark's deep voice. Peeta stretched his limbs under his warm, blue flannel sheets and walked out of his room. He wondered what the problem was. His father rarely swore, and he sounded worried.

"What is it, Dad?" Peeta asked around a yawn. He stood in the baking room, trying to hold onto the last bit of warmth he had. The front door was open, and Peeta wished he had put on his robe. It was a chilly morning, and you could smell the earthy scent of rain.

"Do you... do you know anything about this?" Mr. Mellark asked. He pointed outside at something Peeta couldn't see through the morning fog.

"About wha-" started Peeta, walking out onto the porch. He froze mid-step, petrified at the horrific sight on the steps of his house.

Katniss Everdeen, that girl who was begging for bread just yesterday, was lying on the steps, dead. Flies buzzed around her cadaver. Her hair was tangled and knotted, and Peeta spied leaves and twigs in it. He shuddered. One of her olive-skinned, skin-and-bones hands was reached out like she was trying to climb the steps on her hands and knees.

Peeta's stomach lurched. "Oh God," he whispered. "I really could've saved her... it's my fault, isn't it?"

"Peet?" asked Mr. Mellark gently. "Did you know her?"

"Yeah," Peeta said numbly. "No." He knew her, but he didn't _know_ her. He just didn't know how to say that.

"Your mother drove her off last night," said Mr. Mellark. "I knew she was pretty starved, but... I didn't think this would happen." He stood there as his son leaned on him, an arm over his shoulders. "Don't blame yourself."

An image flashed through Peeta's mind- when he was four, and he had fed that dog... and it had ended up dead too... Why did everything that he tried to help die? How was that fair?

Every night since then, when Peeta closed his eyes to go to sleep, a picture of Katniss Everdeen's skinny corpse filled his mind like it was painted on the inside of his eyelids. It took him a long time to figure out why, even though the answer was staring him in the face: He was experiencing cruel, terrible stabs of remorse, just as bad as if he had taken a knife and slit Katniss's throat.


End file.
